


(Glowing Like the Metal) On the Edge of a Knife

by uena



Series: The Road to Hell (is Paved With Good Intentions) [15]
Category: The Tomorrow People (2013)
Genre: First Time: Teleporting Together, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Random Mugging, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is still suffering the side-effects from the latest drug trial, and Jedikiah takes him out for a walk in the park. There's the slight possibility of pleasantness somewhere in this concept, if it wasn't for the random mugger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope_calaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/gifts).



The early evening air is hot and humid, and the park mostly empty. Jedikiah is more or less glad for that. Not only does he _not_ particularly care for being seen in ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt, John would probably cause somewhat of a stir with his appearance as well.

He’s wearing layers. It’s the worst heatstroke in the history of forever – according to the kids at headquarters – and John is wearing layers. At least two pairs of socks in his old sneakers, a pair of long underwear beneath his jeans, not to mention the undershirt, t-shirt, and plaid shirt he put on _underneath_ his hoodie.

And still he’s shivering.

Jedikiah feels his own t-shirt cling to his sweaty chest and back, and grimaces, but he does not take his arm from where it’s looped around John’s shoulders. “Feeling a bit better?”

John, preoccupied with controlling his limbs from trembling too obviously, only manages a low confirming hum. Jedikiah casts a worried glance in his direction.

Three days have passed since the last drug trial, and John is still dealing with the aftermath. The cold comes in waves, with hours in-between that allow for the false hope that it’s finally over. Until the next wave drags John under.

It’s exhausting, draining. The last tree days have taken a toll on John’s body, and it shows, mostly so on John’s face. His skin is ashen and dry, the shadows beneath his eyes so dark they take over half of his face. He looks like a junkie desperate for his next fix, and the overabundance of baggy clothing he’s forced himself into does not help with disbanding that sort of imagery.

“Walking is not too exhausting for you, is it?” Jedikiah asks him quietly, and his hand gets a better hold on John’s shoulder in case he should stumble. (The little scar on his forehead from when he fainted and fell, hit his head on the concrete, is a garish red in stark contrast to his pallid skin.)

John feels warm beneath Jedikiah’s fingers, hot even. It’s difficult to find the right balance between the actual temperature and how John’s body is processing it. (And difficult in this case really means _impossible_.) “I don’t want to make matters worse.”

“No,” John murmurs back, and it’s the first time he speaks since they have left the house. His voice is hoarse. “It helps. My feet don’t feel quite so frozen anymore.”

He sounds sluggish and tired, and Jedikiah can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to his sweaty temple. “You’re overheating, John.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” John mumbles, pressing closer to Jedikiah.

It’s uncomfortable and far too hot, and Jedikiah pulls John into a tight embrace in the middle of the path. “I don’t want you to get heatstroke. Please take at least the hoodie off.”

He feels the tiny tremors running through John’s body, feels him holding his breath and then releasing it with a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

It’s with reluctance that Jedikiah lets go of him, takes a step back. He watches John carefully while he pulls the hoodie off – can’t help the way his eyes drop to where the movement causes all the layers underneath to ride up on John’s stomach to expose a thin sliver of pale skin.

It’s distracting, that’s what it is, but sufficient explanation for the knife suddenly held to Jedikiah’s throat it is not.

“Gimme all your cash!”

The voice comes from directly behind him. It is reedy and desperate, and the hand that’s holding the knife trembles precariously. Jedikiah tries to squint down to where the blade is so dangerously close to his Adam’s apple, and then hastily looks back up to John struggling out of his hoodie.

“It’s okay, John,” he says with forced calm, “relax.”

But when John finally throws the hoodie onto the dusty path he doesn’t look relaxed at all. He looks scared at first – eyes wide and incredulous – but not for long. The fear in his eyes is soon replaced by fury, the effect only accentuated by his hair spiking up in all directions, and his eyes having glazed over. It doesn’t help that he’s shivering just as much as the junkie holding Jedikiah at knife’s point.

“Gimme all your cash!” the junkie bellows again, and Jedikiah fixes his gaze on John, urges him silently to stay where he his, to not move a single inch.

“Gladly,” he says, his voice still calm, slightly smug even. He can’t take random muggers seriously, even less so when they attack _him and John_ instead of an actually helpless target. “My wallet’s in my right pants p-“

Groping fingers make him stop mid-sentence, and then there’s just the hint of pressure to his throat, for just a few seconds. It’s probably an accident.

But accident or not, there’s blood – there’s blood, and John can see it, had to watch Jedikiah getting cut _at the throat_.

The noise John makes is not altogether human, and Jedikiah moves on autopilot. He ducks to the left and away from the knife just in time for John to barrel forward and into their attacker.

It’s stupid and hasty and downright suicidal, but Jedikiah knows that John isn’t thinking right now. He’s reacting – reacting to the fact that Jedikiah was in danger, _that he got hurt_.

Damn him and his protective instincts. Jedikiah would have handled this.

Now he isn’t in the position to handle anything. All he can do is stand by and watch the unfolding mess.

John, for once in his life not holding back for anyone, is fighting like a man possessed – but so is his opponent, and he has a knife. Whatever he was before the drugs took over, it looks like it had to do with some sort of martial arts, otherwise John would have downed him in three seconds flat.

It’s difficult to keep track of the knife’s position, or even of all the limbs involved, and Jedikiah is uncomfortably aware of the growing feeling of unease in his gut.

With the way John and the junkie are grappling with each other, it’s only a matter of time until one of them gets stabbed. There’s already blood on the path, and it’s probably John’s. Jedikiah can see the cuts in his plaid shirt, and he hopes they’re mostly shallow. John doesn’t seem to feel them, anyway.

He fights silently, his rattling breath the only sound coming from him, while his opponent lets loose an endless stream of curses, accentuated by the occasional grunt of triumph when he manages to lay a hit or get another cut in John.

Jedikiah watches him from narrowed eyes.

He sees the sudden shift in the junkie’s stance, sees him tighten his grip on the knife. John sees it too, tries to anticipate the onslaught he knows is coming by widening his own stance – and twists his left ankle.

He goes down with a yelp of surprised pain, his left knee crunching into the dust. John’s opponent uses the opening in his defence, lunges forward and buries the knife up to the hilt in John’s right thigh.

The absence of sound for a few endless seconds sucks the air right out of Jedikiah’s lungs. Then he shakes it off, blocks it all out, lets determination take over. The junkie is on his knees, breathing hard, and he seems to have forgotten Jedikiah’s presence.

He won’t make that mistake again.

Jedikiah steps up behind him, quiet and efficiently, and puts both his hands to the man’s head. He breaks his neck in one swift, entirely painless movement.

When he lets go of him, he doesn’t pay attention to how he falls forward and onto his face. All his attention is on John – to the way he has curled in on himself, to the puddle of blood spreading on the dusky path.

“John,” he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, and he steps over the lifeless body in his way to get to John as fast as possible. “John!”

John doesn’t give a sign that he’s heard him, and Jedikiah feels utterly weak for a heartbeat or two – then John turns his head and looks at him. Even in the fading light of day, his eyes are startlingly blue. He tries to smile at Jedikiah. “That was dumb, I know.”

“Very,” Jedikiah confirms with feeling. The knife is still sheathed in John’s thigh, just its hilt visible. It’s not a small knife. Jedikiah feels nauseous all of a sudden.

For a couple of terrifying seconds, he doesn’t know what to do.

But the moment passes, leaving him with the single-minded resolve to get John to safety and proper care as fast as possible. The realization that he can’t take John to a hospital has him making slight alterations to that resolve: safety and _barely sufficient_ care. Doctor Kennex will have to do.

“John,” he says, his voice laced with urgency, “you have to teleport.”

John blinks at him with incomprehension. “What?”

“You’ll bleed out if I try to carry you that far,” Jedikiah explains, clinging to his patience while ripping off his belt for an impromptu tourniquet. He slings it around Johns leg just above the knife hilt, and John hisses when he pulls it tight. Jedikiah grits his teeth. “So you have to teleport – to headquarters. You think you can do that?”

John turns his head to get a better look at Jedikiah’s face, and by the way it rotates just a few inches too far before John forces it back Jedikiah can tell how exhausted John is, how tired – he’ll probably pass out soon.

“Teleport,” John repeats, as though the word is foreign to his tongue, and Jedikiah risks to pull him up and into his arms.

He lets out a slow, controlled breath. “Yes, John, _teleport_. I know you can do it – you’ve always been great at teleporting.”

“Never taken anyone with me,” John mumbles, his eyes irresistibly drifting shut.

“John!” Jedikiah almost shouts, has to force himself not to shake him. “You can leave me here, I can go by myself, but now, please, you have to –“

“No!” John interrupts him, his drooping lids flying open. “I’m not leaving you!”

The dusky gloom of evening explodes into light and everything. Just. Stops.

Jedikiah’s first thought is that teleporting with John feels just like teleporting with Roger. It’s the same rush, the same feeling of getting too close to the winter sun – everything is pale and bright, uncomfortably hot and cold at the same time.

After a while, he can feel John underneath it all, though. The glaring brightness falls away to leave a soft, tender warmth, something fragile and timid. There’s nothing of the breathless adventure that was at the basis of every single teleport with Roger.

Jedikiah feels safe, cradled … protected. And it takes him far too long to notice that he’s never spent so much time between places before.

With Roger he’s never really been in the position to notice how it looks, passing through, how it feels. It’s always over in the blink of an eye, and he can only try to remember afterwards.

The implication of what this prolonged stay between destinations might result from has Jedikiah screw his eyes shut in stubborn denial.

John did not faint and leave them in everlasting limbo, _nor did he die_. He’s alive and well, despite the knife in his leg. He must be. He would never die on Jedikiah like that, never condemn him to … to _this_. This safe heaven of eternal loneliness.

Jedikiah lets out a ragged breath, and the warm bubble of security around him ripples and bursts. When he opens his eyes, he’s on the western side of headquarters, on his knees, John in his arms.

John’s looking up at him out of a face so pale it looks like reflected moonlight, his eyes as dark as ink. “Did I do it? Are you safe?”

Jedikiah doesn’t know whether to kiss him or hit him.

“You did it,” he whispers back, his voice suspiciously thick. “We’re safe.”

John, because – according to Doctor Kennex – he likes to be dramatic, loses consciousness.

It would probably be easier to get up first, and then lift John into his arms, but Jedikiah doesn’t have room in his mind for logic right now. He somehow scrambles upright while at no point in time letting go of John, and then more or less runs to the entrance with him.

The security guard currently on duty stares at him as if he’s a vision from hell, before he hastens to open the doors for them, all the while shouting into his walky-talky that medical assistance is needed in the lobby.

Jedikiah might yet learn to accept the man, despite his doughnut eating habits.

When he tries to take John from Jedikiah though, Jedikiah has to forcibly restrain himself from kicking out against his kneecap. “I’ve got him,” he grits out.

“But Sir,” the security guard says, his eyes wide and terrified, “you’re injured yourself!”

“Nonsense,” Jedikiah scoffs, and then the elevator doors open to reveal a team of medics with a stretcher, so all further discussion becomes unnecessary.

Jedikiah relinquishes John to them even though he doesn’t really want to, and takes the stairs once the elevator doors have closed behind them, John’s unconscious face the last thing he sees.

He feels dizzy and out of breath when he reaches Medical, and gets waylaid by the first nurse in his path. “Doctor Price, you need to sit your ass down right now.”

Jedikiah stares at her. She’s either new or –

“You’re terrifying the junior staff,” she grumbles and grabs his elbow, manoeuvres him backwards and onto a low chair. “Sit down, before you fall down.”

His knees fold automatically, and he has to stare up at her now, sees her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Running around with a neck wound like that …”

He blinks, then starts to lift his hand towards his neck, which she promptly knocks down again. “Don’t you dare touch that!”

He blinks again, suddenly tired to his core. “What about John – I need to –“

Her face softens a little, which means she doesn’t look like she’s liable to attack him with an _axe_ anymore. “Mr Young will be fine. Doctor Reddington has that well in hand. Now let me have a look at your cut. I’ll let you go and sit with him once I’ve bandaged that up, I promise.”

She leaves him to get cleaning supplies and bandages for his wound, and Jedikiah uses the time she needs for that by looking about himself and taking stock of the procedures around him.

John seems to be on the far side of the room, hidden from view by a white partition, with a flock of nurses surrounding him. One of them is carrying a supply of stored blood.

Jedikiah closes his eyes for a moment, just to open them again with a hiss.

“What,” he demands thunderously, “is your name?”

The nurse, who had taken advantage of his moment of weakness to disinfect the cut across his neck awards him with a somewhat grim smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jedikiah’s actually speechless.

Her smile widens. “Please hold still.”

She proceeds to clean his wound with deft fingers, then inspects it ponderingly. “Stitches are not particularly necessary, but the cut would probably heal without leaving a scar,” she says.

“I do not need stitches, I don’t care about a scar,” Jedikiah growls at her, and she nods.

“Just what I thought.” She patches him up and puts a bandage around his neck, then lets her very articulate gaze drop towards his chest. “I don’t suppose you want to take the time to make yourself presentable?” She looks over to where the partition hides John. “He’s not quite fixed up yet, I fear.”

Jedikiah doesn’t want to look down, mostly because the bandage around his neck is rather tight. “How much blood is there?”

“Not that much,” she answers, “but it looks worse on white.”

“Verena!” Doctor Reddington bellows across the room, just as Jedikiah decides that he has a reputation to uphold, “stop fussing around with Price, I need you over here!”

Her mouth is a grim line when she leaves Jedikiah to follow that summoning, and Jedikiah has no idea if it’s because of the way it was uttered, or because she’s not so certain anymore that John will be just fine.

Whatever the reason, he does not leave the room for a change of clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't die, and Jedikiah decides to be honest with himself, once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I keep trying to make plans for this. I might as well call myself Schmendrick, and try to tell my Magic what to do.

“You have to teleport it somewhere it won’t be found. Do you understand me? I need you to take care of this, and fast.”

Killian’s face is more or less blank, but he nods. “Yes, Sir.”

Jedikiah watches his retreating form on its way to the door of his office, and can’t help but wonder if this will come back to bite him in the ass someday. Killian can’t be trusted. He can be depended on to follow orders, though, is one of the few agents who will _always_ do what he’s told, and right now that’s exactly what Jedikiah needs.

He can’t leave that corpse in the park lying around for just anyone to be found.

He looks down at his hands as if in afterthought, studies them from under knit brows. They look the same … feel the same.

Jedikiah closes his eyes and draws both hands to fists on top of his desk. He broke a man’s neck. He broke a man’s neck, and he doesn’t feel different, doesn’t feel remorse, or disgust, or even wonder at the fact that he was capable to do such a vile thing.

John was hurt, and he needed to get to him, and that _scum_ was in the way. An obstacle.

If pressed to admit to anything, Jedikiah would say that he feels vindicated and even a little bit pleased with himself. He came out of a stressful situation, not without a scratch, but on top; and what’s most important, he took care of John.

If it took the additional help of doctors, nurses and blood transfusions – well, he’s a scientist, not a miracle worker.

They say that John will be fine, that his wound will heal, and he’ll regain full capacity of his leg. They also say that he’ll need a lot of rest … and a break from the Annex Program.

Jedikiah couldn’t agree more. It was almost impossible to find a drug-cocktail strong enough to counter the one already in John’s system to deal with the pain of getting a knife to the thigh. If it hadn’t been for Nurse Verena, Reddington and Kennex wouldn’t even have _tried_.

Jedikiah thought he’s used to the sight of John in pain. He’s not. Not at all.

Which is _not_ why he’s in his office right now instead of in Medical where John is once more strapped to his bed. He’s in his office because he had to wrap this mess up in a way that wouldn’t end with law enforcement storming the premises.

But now that’s done, and he’s free to spend his time at John’s bedside, waiting for him to wake from fretful bouts of sleep, holding his hand when he thinks nobody’s watching them.

Everybody is, though.

So far, nobody has dared to ask him _why_ he was in that park with John so late in the day, why he’s so invested in his rehabilitation, why Doctor Jedikiah Price suddenly _cares_.

So far his answer to such an imprudent – if hypothetic – intrusion into his private life is a fist to the face, but Jedikiah’s working on it. The words will come to him, they always do.

In the meantime, he’ll just have to glower at the silent watchers until they direct their attention elsewhere. It’s been working so far.

Since John will get anxious if he wakes up and Jedikiah isn’t there, Jedikiah gets up from his chair and leaves his office with long determined strides. He shortens them a bit whenever he encounters someone on his way to Medical, but he can do little to nothing about the determination.

 

John’s asleep when he sits down on the visitor’s chair, and Jedikiah lets out a little sigh of relief. He didn’t like the feeling he got the last time someone told him John had asked for him when he woke up. When he wasn’t _there_.

Guilt is for other people.

But since John is not at all conscious and therefore in no state to ask for him, there’s no need for guilt. He’s here, he’ll still be here when John wakes up, there won’t be a corpse to worry about when it happens, and John will heal.

Everything’s just peachy.

So Jedikiah settles down. And waits.

Watching John sleep would probably be somewhat creepy, if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s less pleasant and more nerve-wrecking than the average judge of those things would assume.

John’s sleep is neither deep nor peaceful, it’s restless. It’s filled with tiny little moans of the anguished variety, with fidgety shifting, hindered by leather straps.

There’s no way to relax and watch him with a mind-set removed from the situation. For some reason he can’t quite fathom, Jedikiah is all in – mind, body and soul.

There’s no detachment, no clinical assessment of the situation.

There’s only the fact that John is hurting, and Jedikiah can’t help. It’s so ridiculous Jedikiah would laugh if he wasn’t so furious with himself. He wasn’t supposed to start caring, _really caring_.

He is though, very much indeed, so that’s that. Time to own up to the facts.

John is eighteen, and he’s immature and doesn’t always think things through and all the other crap that comes with being eighteen. But he’s also trusting, and caring, and protective, eager to please, desperate for affection … and Jedikiah’s in love with him.

It’s not an emotion he’s used to, or comfortable with, not like this. John will always be the kid he saved and took under his wing, and Jedikiah’ll never forget the years he watched him growing up.

There used to be some warped sense of paternal fondness when he looked at John, and as disturbing as it is, that feeling is still there, underneath this new urge to touch and comfort and _wreck_ the boy.

The cut across his neck starts to itch, and Jedikiah rubs the bandages absentmindedly, all the while staring down at John’s face.

He looks terrible. He’s too young to look like this, too young for the lines that have buried themselves in the skin around his eyes, his mouth, along his forehead. Plus, he’s far too pale.

As soon as John is able to leave Medical, Jedikiah will take him home, he decides. He’ll mow the lawn behind his house, and sit John down in the shade with all the cushions and ice-tea he could possibly need.

Because now that he’s admitted to himself that he’s (an idiot) in love, there’s no sense in denying himself the pleasure of showing it to John.

Jedikiah nods in silent approval of his own plans, and John scrunches his nose up and opens his eyes. His timing has always been rather special.

“Hey,” Jedikiah says, as men are wont to do when emotion gets the better of their otherwise flawless vocabulary. “Welcome back.”

John blinks up at him, sluggish and decidedly irresistible, and then he smiles.

Jedikiah _knows_ that he’s still in pain, can see it in the lines around his mouth, in the shadow around his eyes … but he smiles.

Solely for his benefit, of that Jedikiah is sure.

“The painkillers haven’t quite kicked in yet, but your doctors did all they could. It’s going to get better, I promise.”

This earns him another smile, a little less forced, a lot softer. “Okay. Thank you.”

Jedikiah lifts an eyebrow. “That’s hardly my accomplishment. If it weren’t for Verena, I’m rather sure Kennex and his henchmen would’ve just removed the leg and called it a day.”

“Verena?” John asks, and then, as if he’s hailed her like an angel from the heavens above, Nurse Verena descends on them.

“Mr Young, how good of you to join us. How are you feeling?”

John stares up at her as if the really _was_ an angel. It’s probably because she’s smiling at him, gentle and honest in a way John doesn’t often encounter.

“I’m … I’m fine,” he stammers.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but she sighs. “And now the answer for your Nurse, not the friendly stranger you don’t want to worry, please. And no trying to put on a brave front, either. It’s useless.”

John’s eyes flick over to Jedikiah, uncertain, and Jedikiah grins at him. “Better do as she says. Yesterday, she told me to sit my ass down – before I fall down.”

The words cause John’s eyes to almost double in size, and Jedikiah leans back in his chair.

“My leg hurts,” John admits, his voice quiet, and his gaze fixed on the white bedspread. “But I’m no longer feeling cold. So that’s something, I guess.”

Verena nods, her expression serious, but still comforting. “I see. What about your cuts and bruises? Do you feel those?”

John shrugs his shoulders. “Sure.”

“And your twisted ankle?”

The answer is almost inaudible this time. “Not as much as the stab-wound.”

Verena sighs. “Small mercies. Okay, listen: The most important thing is to get your spirits up. Because I firmly believe in mind over matter, and the better you feel, the sooner you heal. So I hereby allow you to do pretty much anything you want, eat only what you like best, on the condition that you treat your freedom with becoming responsibility. Doctor Price will make sure that you don’t overexert yourself and come back for regular check-ups and bandage changes, and in the meantime he can take you to Honolulu, for all I care.”

John stares at her, with eyes as big and round as those of a child beholding Mother Christmas. “Are you real?”

She grins, two unexpected dimples appearing on her cheeks. “Why do people always ask me that?”

She looks over at Jedikiah, and they share an even less expected smile. “I’ll organize you a wheelchair. Bundle him up.”

With that she turns and leaves them alone, and John flutters his eyelashes in bewilderment in the wake of her magnificence. “Where did she come from? Is she an actress? Did you … did you _make_ her say that?”

“You really do give me too much credit,” Jedikiah grins. He gets up and leans over John to ‘bundle him up’ – and is frozen midway by John’s sudden change in expression.

“What?” he says, sudden worry cutting into his guts. “Are you hurting? What’s wrong, John?”

John, instead of answering, reaches out his hand and touches the bandage around Jedikiah’s neck. “I … I’d almost … I hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m fine, John,” Jedikiah assures him, catching John’s fingers in his, trying to help the truth of his words along with gentle pressure. “The cut is superficial. I didn’t even need stitches.”

“But,” John hesitates, licks his lips, “it’s my fault.”

“No.” Jedikiah is so dumbstruck by the words, he doesn’t even get angry. “No, it’s not. There was a junkie with a knife, John. It’s his fault. Entirely. His. Fault.”

“But I was _there_.”

“So was the moon and I don’t hear you blaming him.”

The utter nonsense of the remark doesn’t even slow John down. “The _moon_ can’t –“

“John, I am terribly fond of you and your uncontrollable urge to blame yourself for everything, but if you don’t _shut up_ –“

“Here we are, wheelchair, just like I promised.” Verena somehow manages to glare at Jedikiah and smile at John all at the same time. “Why isn’t he bundled up? I thought I told you to bundle him up, _Doctor Price_.”

The axe is back in her expression, and still, she’s smiling at John. Jedikiah doesn’t know how she does it, but he does know when to cut his losses and flee.

“Bundling up right now,” he hastens to say. “We were just discussing the unique properties of the moon and got a bit carried away.”

She seems unimpressed. “As you do.”

He nods and _bundles John up_ in his arms, bedspread included. John, instead of uttering a pained gasp, as Jedikiah half and half expects him to, actually snorts, giggles, and hides his face in Jedikiah’s neck.

“There, that’s better,” Verena comments, and Jedikiah, try as he might, cannot get control over the fond smile stretching his lips. He’d hide it in John’s hair, but Verena would probably know, anyway.

She presents him the wheel-chair with a flourish, and he gingerly puts John down in it and then spends a good minute fussing with the bedspread.

“I’m going to need that back,” Verena says from somewhere behind him. “You can bring it tomorrow – for his first check-up.”

She retreats with those words, and Jedikiah looks up at John from his position crouched in front of the wheel-chair. “For the record: I don’t blame you, I really don’t. And I don’t want you to blame yourself, either. All I want is for you to get better. So … try not to put yourself down too much, yeah? For me?”

John looks thunderstruck for entirely too long, then he blinks his eyes, swallows, clears his throat, and nods. “Yeah. I can do that. For you.”

Jedikiah hesitates for all of two seconds, before he gets up and presses a kiss to John’s slack lips. “Good. Lets get you home.”


End file.
